


2 Heads

by Finian



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Feels, Gore, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Vomit, really gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:31:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4363193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Finian/pseuds/Finian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our love ain't nothing but a monster with two heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2 Heads

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I wrote this on a bus between Italy and Switzerland while listening to this song. It's a really good song. I think I mis-interpreted it.

"I turn to you, you're all I see. Our love's a monster with two heads and one heartbeat." - Coleman Hell, '2 Heads'

There was rarely a calm night in the Manor out on the hill, past the edge of the city's sprawling concrete jungle, past the tin and plywood shanty towns that popped up overnight. There was heist planning to be done, maps to be read and memorized, roles to be assigned. Celebrations to be had when the heists went off without a hitch- champagne when they were tired, scotch when they were still high up on adrenaline. 

There was foreboding mourning ready to swallow the team as they waited, anxiously, for their medic and tailor to declare whether their numbers had dropped below fifteen or not.

When their numbers did drop, they reached into the flesh of time, ripping new teammates from the beginning, all over again- like scabs from a healing wound. Crowbar even made pamphlets, explaining why they were there. Ignoring the part about not being the first, the original, until someone died and they had to explain to them all over again how they had gotten there. What a fucking joke.

If you have a car, it's yours. If you replace the parts, one by one, is it even the same car at the end? Were they even the same team? None of them were there from the beginning, except for The Snowman, but that was as given as the Manor was green.

A year ago, the last Living Fin and the last Living Trace had been killed. They were dead in the ever-growing graveyard that was the property's backyard, under fresh turned earth and large stones. 

They even knew where they- themselves, the other ones- were buried. And they knew that one day, one day, they would be buried right alongside them.

There was rarely a calm night, but when there was, each and every one of those replaceable green torsos took full advantage of it. The halls, the kitchen, the parlors- nothing was spared from the sweaty, musky air. The whole place reeked of alcohol and sex, of cheap dames and cheaper boys.

Fin and Trace were smudges of orange and red in the parlor up on the second floor, tangled up in a green blanket. Empty bottles littered the space in front of the sofa. Fin's throat burned as he took a swig from the ever-emptying bottle they'd passed back and forth all night.

Trace took it again without a word, finishing it off. Fin wasn't upset. They shared- that's what they did. They shared everything. Some nagging voice picked at the back of his brain, whispering at first, growing and growing and peaking into a scream. They shared everything, everything. They shared their fate, they shared their souls.

Trace pressed tighter into his chest from where he lay to the side of him. They shared their bodies. They needed to. If they weren't together- if they didn't share everything- one would die before the other.

Fin didn't realize he'd been speaking aloud until Trace whispered that he would never die before Fin, would never let Fin die before him. They would go out together, glorious, victorious, like they had before they were them.

They were on the same page, then. It had to be true.

"It is true, Fin."

His throat burned all the way up to his nose, burned into his eyes, leaked and fell down his face sideways like acid, like fire. He had to be sure. Trace didn't say anything. Trace didn't move- Trace wasn't breathing- he was wide-eyed, still, cold.

That was right, wasn't it? This wasn't a calm day. This was after-mourning. Their medic had come back with bad, bad news. Trace was dead. One of the others was badly hurt, dying. Of course. Fin knew that.

Trace hadn't been holding the bottle to his lips. Fin had been holding it to his dead, dark face; pouring the rest of the alcohol onto dead, dark lips. The bottle fell from his hand, 'thunk'ed against dead, dark meat. The whiskey pooled in a dead, dark mouth, ran down dead, dark cheeks.

A day ago, the last Living Trace had been killed, became the Most Recently Dead Trace.

He was set to be buried right next to the last-before-that Trace, who was buried next to the last-to-die Fin, in a line of red and orange and sharp teeth and suits.

The new Trace stood in the doorway, horrified, clutching the garish little pamphlet Currently Living Crowbar gave to new replacements. That was Fin- not his Fin, but another Trace's Fin- sobbing and puking on a Dead Trace's chest, right above the gaping chunk left behind to mar his chest, over his heart. He was sure there was no heart left there now. The vomit ran, cloudy and amber-gold, pooled with the thick stale blood and shared whiskey. 

Trace jumped- Crowbar had touched his shoulder, pushed him, passed him. Mumbled something about dogs and guns. Something about yelling. He couldn't pick out his words, staring over Crowbar's receding shoulder at the raw, raw scene in the parlor.

Fin didn't react to Crowbar pulling the blanket away from the two of them, leaving them both exposed and bloody and one of them well and truly dead.

Living Trace reacted to the sight of Fin's lower half torn to ribbons, and rather violently, turning and heaving into the hallway. Vomit splashed his shoes. He could get new ones, Crowbar assured him, now could he come help him with this? Trace shook his head. He couldn't stand the sight of Fin, shredded like he'd been through a cheese grater and pulled out halfway, sinews and tendons and flesh hanging in large strips as Crowbar lifted him by the shirt, and he remembered something about an ambush, an explosion in the single-digits wing shortly after the ambush.

Fin screamed, not in pain, Trace could tell that, yelling about love and sharing and Going Together and Living Trace had to look away. Crowbar set the dying man back down as the stump that was his hips gushed a freshet of blood onto the rug, next to the bottles, splashing into the cups.

/"If only I could live forever. If only I could hold you longer."/

The Manor reeked of alcohol and stale blood and gunpowder and fire.

Crowbar drew a revolver from his coat, slipped a bullet into the first chamber, aimed.

Trace realized what he had said earlier, as he has shouldered past him.

He was going to put him down like an old dog. 

Fin didn't flinch as he cocked the hammer back, kept his eyes locked on Trace. Not the living Trace, not the one he could have fought to stay alive for. The dead Trace. The Trace covered in alcohol and vomit and newly-spilled blood.

His last words were swallowed by the sound of the gun firing, though Trace could make out his lips moving before the gunshot made him flinch. His last smile wasted on a dead man when the living one was right there, less than a room's length away from where his body ended. 

Maybe there really hadn't been any hope at saving him. Or maybe Crowbar knew that Fin didn't want to live without Trace there. His Trace.

 

Hours later, Trace sat in the now-clean parlor with the new Fin, his Fin, from their shared timeline. Fin was scared, excited, eager to thumb through the pamphlet and act like this was all one big adventure. Fin hugged him.

Trace didn't hug back, couldn't hug back. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, his arms shook. Crowbar told him that he was more than welcome to stay out of the fighting for a while.

A day ago, the last Trace had been killed. A few hours ago, the last Fin had been put out of his misery. They were dead in the ever growing graveyard that was the property. They even knew where they- themselves, the other ones- were buried. And they knew that one day, one day, they would be buried right alongside them.


End file.
